Templar Legion

by Paul Christopher

  During Lanz’s six-day stay in Kukuanaland he had made four official attempts to see Kolingba and gone for five afternoon walks. He had remained in the Trianon hotel during the evenings, sometimes eating in his room and sometimes in the Marie Antoinette Bar.

  During these evenings he spoke only to Marcel Boganda, the bartender, a longtime paid informant of Saint-Sylvestre’s. According to Boganda their conversation had never gotten onto subjects of any more interest than the weather. Although Saint-Sylvestre had heard or seen nothing to dispute Oliver Gash’s presumption that Lanz was in Fourandao to reconnoiter a coup d’état, neither had he heard or seen anything to support it.

  Saint-Sylvestre had been a policeman in the Central African Republic a great deal longer than Gash had been a resident there, and something about the Rwandan/ American refugee triggered the policeman’s distrust.

  If there had ever been a man more of an opportunist than President Kolingba, it was his newly minted second in command Oliver Gash, and if Gash wanted to know about an upcoming coup it was only to decide which side he should take or whether he should flee to his secret accounts in a number of Switzerland-, Panama- and Liechtenstein-based banks, all of which Saint-Sylvestre knew about.

  Saint-Sylvestre also knew about Kolingba’s secret accounts, and was well aware that one of his own people at the Department of Internal Affairs had similar documentation regarding the African leader. On more than one occasion during Saint-Sylvestre’s long career it had occurred to the policeman that the government of the Central African Republic in general, and Kukuanaland in particular, was no more nor less corrupt and corruptible than any other nation; it was simply smaller and more overt. Like an expectation of personal privacy, in Kukuanaland there wasn’t the slightest expectation of a government that was incorruptible.

  Corruption had been expected on the African continent with the first delivery of foreign-aid powdered milk and penicillin. There were three thousand tribes and two thousand languages all fighting for their existence and no moral code whether Catholic, Lutheran, Baptist or otherwise had ever made more than the most superficial inroads into that wretched, poor and terrible place. Joseph Conrad knew what he was talking about when he reached the end of that river in the Congo and found nothing but “The horror! The horror!”

  And now it seemed there was more to come. In the four days since Konrad Lanz’s arrival at Heathrow he had met five people at his somewhat sordid headquarters at the Ali Pasha. Of the five, four had been cast from the same mold: hard, tough-looking men with an animal sense about them, even in the bowels of a megacity like London.

  One of them had even been recognizable from the photo files Saint-Sylvestre kept at the airport. His name was Stefan Whartski, a Pole who’d started his mercenary career as a transport pilot during the Eritrean civil wars of 1980 and 1981. With men like Whartski talking to Lanz, it looked more and more as though his intuitions had been correct—he was watching a coup d’état in the making.

  The fifth Saint-Sylvestre called Mr. X. It was this man who was now meeting with Lanz for the second time, and he was something else altogether. Tall, distinguished, wearing his Bond Street suit like a uniform and with a military bearing that would have looked better on the parade ground than crawling through the jungle swamps outside Fourandao. This was the money man at ground level, not the principal perhaps but a conduit leading to him.

  Lanz and the mystery man suddenly came out of the hotel and stood talking for a moment, bathed in the security light over the main door of the grimy six-story building. Saint-Sylvestre twisted the big telephoto lens. After a thousand surveillances like this one, reading lips was second nature to him.

  Mr. X: “You’ve checked the money, then?”

  Lanz: “Yes. Quite correct.”

  Mr. X: “You’ll be there tomorrow?”

  Lanz: “You said seven thirty.”

  Mr. X: “Yes. Wear a tie, please.”

  Lanz: “Anything you like.”

  Mr. X: “All right, then.”

  Lanz: “Sure you won’t come for a bite? They do a very nice butter chicken.”

  Mr. X: “That sort of thing never agrees with me. Indian food, I mean.” He paused. “Must get home to the wife and kiddies.”

  Lanz: “Of course.”

  The two men parted without shaking hands. Mr. X climbed into a black Jaguar XJ sedan while Lanz headed for the High Street. Saint-Sylvestre took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial. A tentative voice answered on the second ring. “Selam, ’alo?” Tahib Akurgal said.

  “It’s me,” the policeman said without identifying himself. God only knew what sort of lists the night clerk at the Ali Pasha Hotel was on.

  “Yes?”

  “What did you hear?” Saint-Sylvestre said. The first question he’d posed to Tahib, the hardworking medical student who worked nights at his uncle’s hotel, was, “How much did the gray-haired man with the German accent pay you to report anyone asking questions about him?” Tahib had balked. Saint-Sylvestre said he’d double the amount and if he found out that Tahib was playing both ends against the middle he’d slit the throats of every single member of Tahib’s family, young or old, saving Tahib for last. Tahib was now on Saint-Sylvestre’s payroll at a hundred pounds a day.

  “They are going to meet his lordship at seven thirty tomorrow evening.”

  “His lordship?” Was Mr. X spoofing his boss or was something else going on?

  “That is what the other man said, effendi.”

  “Did the other one say where this meeting was to take place?”

  “Yes, he even made sure that Lanz-bey wrote the address down.”

  “What is it?”

  “Number nine Grantham Place, flat six, London W-one.”

  Westminster. Mr. Lanz and Mr. X were playing for high stakes. Grantham Place was to the Ali Pasha like heaven was to hell.

  “I’m coming across the street, Tahib. I’ll need the key.”

  “No, sir, please, Lanz-bey will kill me if he finds out!”

  “Lanz-bey is eating butter chicken at a curry house up the road, probably the same Curry Capital he’s had dinner at for the past three nights.”

  “Please, sir,” Tahib groveled. “I cannot.”

  Saint-Sylvestre smiled. “Yes, sir,” he said. “You can, and you will. Another hundred pounds.”

  “This would be in addition to the regular hundred pounds?” The groveling was gone. The policeman had done a little scratching into the night clerk’s background and discovered that Tahib’s father was a major dealer on the Istanbul gold market in the Kapali carsi, the Grand Bazaar, which by definition meant he was a criminal. Like father, like son. A doctor perhaps, but a doctor with a criminal mind.

  “Yes, in addition to the regular hundred pounds.”

  “Perhaps you would like a key to the adjoining room in case of an emergency, effendi.”

  “You’re wasting my time, Tahib. Don’t do that.”

  “No, sir, of course not. I shall await your arrival, effendi.”

  Saint-Sylvestre took the tiny Chobi miniature camera out of his backpack and slipped the half-inch square device into his shirt pocket. Three minutes later he was letting himself into Konrad Lanz’s hotel room with the key provided by Tahib Akurgal.

  The room was on the top floor of the hotel, facing an alley lined with industrial-sized rubbish bins and the back sides of buildings facing the next street. There was a zigzagging, rusting and ancient fire escape with a landing outside of Lanz’s window that appeared to be painted shut.

  The room contained a narrow bed, a writing desk that had been moved from against the wall to stand alone under the only overhead light, and two chairs—a Victorian-style captain’s chair with scrolled arms and legs and a plump upholstered club chair with a chenille throw covering the worn, pale burgundy velvet upholstery.

  The only other furniture was an IKEA-style side table for the swaybacked bed and a pressboard chest of drawers. Lanz’s suitcase was sitting open on the ches
t, an expensive-looking Mulholland Brothers shaving kit in plain view.

  Saint-Sylvestre crossed to the desk. There was a yellow lined pad of neatly made notes, a fine-tip felt pen and the cover of the Carl Hiaasen book Lanz had brought to Fourandao.

  Saint-Sylvestre was impressed by Lanz’s ingenuity; working from memory every day, Lanz had put together an exceptionally detailed map of the center of the town, including the location of electrical transformers and telephone lines along with their switching stations. Particular attention had been paid to the presidential compound, noting the number of guard towers and the number of shifts at each tower. The offices of the Department of the Interior were correctly located on the plaza, as were the three blocks of flats directly behind the plaza, most of which were occupied by favored friends of Kolingba who occupied most of the government bureaucratic offices for Kukuanaland. The map also noted army patrol routes and times and noted manpower for each.

  The notes on the yellow pad reflected the maps, and Lanz’s simple shorthand for various terms was easy enough to decipher. The mercenary had correctly judged that the compound held around two hundred men, with a hundred on duty at any one time.

  The rare comings and goings of the president and Gash were also noted. There was a page of notes devoted to nothing but ordnance, armor and airpower, all of it accurate. Lanz hadn’t missed a trick.

  On another page there was a list of names and ranks as well as figures that were most likely pay scales. And lists of equipment. Each of the separate pages had an estimated figure totaled in euros at the bottom. The last page had a simple formula that Saint-Sylvestre recognized without any trouble:2 comp X 200 (2 Maj.) PSF

  8 plat X20 (8 Lieut)

  40 sq. X 10 (20 sgt.)

  Two majors for two companies of two hundred troops provided by an unnamed private security force, divided into eight platoons of twenty headed by eight lieutenants, further divided into forty separate squads of ten, each with its own sergeant: Lanz’s prescription for taking over Fourandao with four hundred highly trained and well-armed soldiers. The final grand total for men, equipment and transportation was slightly in excess of one million euros. A country taken for one million, three hundred thousand American dollars.

  Saint-Sylvestre began to photograph the documents with the tiny Chobi camera.

  Who would pay that much money for a backward, corrupt and hostile piece of jungle territory surrounded by plague, genocide, mass rape and murder in the middle of Africa? And even more important, why?

  16

  He smelled the rich scents of bouillabaisse wafting up from the restaurant below and heard the soft patter of a summer shower on the roof of the little hotel on Chartres Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans. He kept his eyes closed, knowing it would all slip away if he opened them, and let the warm breeze coming through the jalousie windows dry the sweat on his bare skin. He listened to his heartbeat slow, and faintly heard a trumpet far away playing “Tiger Rag.” He knew where he was and knew who was on the bed beside him even though it couldn’t be. He was posted to Fort Polk and she taught school in the city but that was years ago.

  “Stay,” he whispered, reaching out a hand and feeling nothing. “Stay for just a little while,” he pleaded. “Please, Amy.”

  But Amy was gone, dust and memory for many years. Alive only in dreams, but in those dreams so achingly alive. He woke in the little tent and wiped the tears from his eyes, glad the Cuban he was sharing space with hadn’t seen.

  The tent was a jungle camo Marmot Limelight, courtesy of the murder squad that had been sent to kill them. Holliday stared up at the curved roof. The sound of the rain was real enough. Strangely, so was the smell of cooking food. He roused himself, sitting up and scrubbing the troubled sleep from his face. Sometimes he hated the memories of his wife for their persistence and the deep, aching pain they caused, and sometimes he wondered how he would live without them, worried that if they faded he would fade along with them, just like the old song MacArthur quoted from in his famous speech. Maybe that was what he was supposed to do.

  He crawled out of the tent and stood up. There was mist on the river and in the trees. The rain whispered, hissing as it fell through the canopy of leaves. Birds called to one another noisily. Eddie was squatting over a fire he’d built in the sheltering boughs of a tree close to the riverbank. A large green-and-white-mottled fish with enormous eyes had been slit and cleaned, then spitted through the gills on a green sapling hung above the coals. The Cuban looked up as Holliday ducked under the overhanging branches of the tree and joined him. They were screened from the river itself by a heavy stand of high reeds, making them virtually invisible to anyone going past.

  “More memories, mi coronel?” Eddie asked.

  “You see too much, my friend,” said Holliday. “The fish smells good.”

  “Puffer,” said Eddie. “Es muy sabroso, good eating.”

  “I’m starved,” said Holliday, and realized it was true. Eddie picked up a length of twig and gently pulled it along the scorched scales of the big fish. The skin peeled back easily, showing the thick white flesh below.

  “Almost ready,” said Eddie.

  On cue Peggy, rumpled and still half-asleep, poked her head out of the tent opening and looked around blearily. She shivered in the damp air even though it was already getting hot. She dragged herself across the tiny little patch of open ground behind the reeds and slumped down beside Holliday. A moment later Rafi appeared and joined her. Eddie took the fish down from its skewer and sliced it into large pieces, putting each one into a large flat leaf. He handed them around. “Eat with your fingers. My restaurant is like Havana where they chain down the spoons.”

  Peggy scooped up a handful of the white, flaky flesh and popped it into her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. “Not bad for the middle of the African jungle.” She nodded. “Too bad there’re no condiments.”

  “Aha!” Eddie said. “I found this just for you!” He leaned over and handed Peggy one of the big leaves folded into a packet. She opened it and found a pile of little woody flecks.

  “What is it?”

  “Try a little. A very little,” said Eddie. Peggy picked up a few flecks on the tip of her finger and tasted them. She winced, coughed, squeezed her eyes shut and moaned. “Hot-hot-hot-hot!” She waved her hands. “Water!”

  Eddie tossed her one of the bottles of water they’d found in the Blackhawk team’s supplies. She twisted off the cap and drained the bottle, then sat back gasping, tears running down her face.

  “What the hell was that?” She gasped.

  “Capsicum annuum, African piquin pepper.” Eddie grinned. He pointed with his knife at a densely branched plant with big purple flowers that was growing in a patch of foliage on the other side of the fire. “It grows all over here.”

  “She’s used to the stuff that comes in little bottles on the restaurant tables.” Holliday laughed.

  “Phooey,” said Peggy. She tore off another chunk of fish from the piece on her broadleaf plate and ate it. They sat in silence, eating the fish and looking out toward the river half-hidden in the mist.

  “We have to make a decision,” said Holliday, finishing the meal and licking his fingers one by one.

  “About what?” Peggy asked.

  “About going on,” he answered.

  “I don’t understand,” Rafi said.

  “This is no wild-goose chase anymore,” said Holliday. “It’s serious.”

  “I always thought it was serious,” retorted Rafi.

  “We were looking for King Solomon’s Mines, Rafi. That’s like looking for Noah’s Ark on Mount Ararat or the Holy Grail behind the rose-red walls of Petra. All archaeological expeditions are wild-goose chases when you get right down to it, but this goose has become too dangerous to track down anymore. People are trying to kill us.”

  “Not for King Solomon’s Mines,” said Rafi.

  “No, they’re after something else and we’re getting in the way. And they’re se
rious. Ask the late Mr. Archibald Ives about that.”

  “So we just give up?” Rafi said.

  “It’s not a matter of giving up, Rafi; it’s about getting out of the line of fire,” answered Holliday. “These people are firing air-to-ground missiles at us. We’re being given a warning. I think it’s one we should heed.”

  “¡Silencio!” Eddie barked, suddenly alert, his head tilted toward the river, his eyes closed.

  “What is it?” Peggy said.

  “Listen!” Eddie hissed. “And keep your heads down.” He scooped a double handful of earth up and dropped it on the fire, covering it. He dumped another load down and tamped it with his hands.

  “There,” whispered Holliday. “I hear it now. Upriver from us.”

  Eddie scuttled across the little clearing and down to the reeds. Holliday followed him.

  “Stay here; stay out of sight,” he cautioned. Rafi nodded.

  “It’s getting closer,” said Eddie, peering through the reeds as Holliday joined him.

  Voices in the mist, strange, high-pitched like a children’s choir. And then a heavy echoing sound like the muffled beating of a giant wooden drum.

  “It is the Guenmilere, I think,” said Eddie, listening.

  “The what?”

  “The Guenmilere, it is a thing from Santeria, a canto.”

  “A chant?”

  “Yes, a chant.”

  There was a few seconds of silence.

  “¡Coño!” Eddie whispered.

  The source of the strange voices came into view, two massive pirogues, or river dugouts, each made from the straight, heavy trunk of a single ash tree, each sixty or seventy feet in length and fitted with a large banana-shaped outrigger. In each of the long, narrow boats forty paddlers worked, all boys between the ages of eight and twelve, each with a very adult Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifle strapped across his back. In the center of each boat was a pile of supplies tied down under tarpaulins.

  And they were singing, the familiar song turned into sinister cadence, each brief line punctuated by a grown man in the bow of the boats beating on the hull with a long, heavy club. As the adult beat the side of the boat he let out a heavy, drawn-out grunt:Onward Christian Soldiers